The Garfield Scrolls V: Skyrim
by UglyTurnip
Summary: A retelling of Skyrim's main quest, with the only major difference being that Garfield is the Dragonborn. Nobody asked for this, nobody probably even wanted this, but it exists now, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
1. Unbound? Part 1

All of life can be described as a temporary respite from the darkness. By darkness, I am not just referring to the easily recognizable concept of darkness in its physical form, but of everything darkness represents to our psyche. When we begin life at our most basic stage, that being a fetus in the womb, we are enshrouded in darkness for nine grueling months. Then, one day, a day that will hopefully come many years from now, we will close our eyes one last time and forevermore be in the embrace of utter nothingness.

That is not to say that life is pointless, or that genuine fulfillment is a fool's dream. To believe that life is all about nihilistic pleasure punctuated by death is to fall for another one of the darkness's evil tricks. That kind of thinking breeds men and women unrestricted by any notion of morality, and often they become the true monsters of history. Nothing makes them repent, because in their eyes, the darkness has already won. To them, fighting for anything is pointless; the darkness will always come for them in the end.

One should not worry about the darkness. It may come one day and snatch you away from your family and friends, but it has already lost from the moment you left your impact on this world. Every little action you take has, through the butterfly effect, helped shape the future of society in ways you cannot possibly imagine. What grand tales inadvertently happened because you simply forgot to wake up on time one random Monday? The world may never know.

And so our story more-or-less begins with the breaking of darkness. A chilly wind was the first sensation to awaken Garfield from his slumber, its icy touch caressing his whiskers as consciousness returned. Opening his eyes, he was not greeted to the expected sight of Jon Arbuckle's bedroom. In its place was a man sitting on a wooden bench, his body and head bend over to look on the wooden floor. He was clad in some blue-brownish tunic, and his blonde hair was bedraggled. Though Garfield could not get a good look at his eyes, his posture suggested that sleep had eluded him.

This was not home. Wherever he was, Garfield knew it was far from Jon's house. It was only once that thought crossed his mind that Garfield realized he was moving. The not-so-delicious scent of horse dung was in the air. Throwing his head to his left, Garfield caught sight of a man dressed in leather armor colored a brownish crimson. They wagon was traveling along a cobblestone road that snaked down a lazily-inclined hill. On either side of the road were pine trees, their leaves stained with morning dew. With the exception of the sounds of wagon wheels rolling along, all was quiet.

Garfield couldn't help but shiver. Why was it so viciously cold!? How could anyone, even him, sleep in this kind of frigid weather? His eyes darted around the cart, but nothing was familiar. Of chief concern was that his bed was nowhere to be seen, nor was Pooky. He tried desperately to conjure some witty joke, but his mind was simply too blank.

It was then that the man in front of Garfield lifted his gaze upward. His eyes widened as he realized that Garfield was conscious and frightened.

"Looks like you're awake at last," he greeted with a smile.

Garfield nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. I do wake up, sometimes."

The man's smile morphed into a somewhat sly grin. "Even now, I find that hard to believe. You were sleeping right through that Imperial ambush and everything."

"Imperial ambush?" Garfield questioned, cocking his head. When there was no reply, he yawned. "I must be having quite the dream. No more lasagna right before bed. Well, at least until Thursday!"

The man awkwardly rubbed his nose with his bound hands. The gesture caused Garfield to look at his own paws, and was only then that Garfield noticed he was tied up just like the man.

"My name's Ralof," said the man with a nod.

"Garfield," the cat remarked. "Although I still have no idea what I'm doing here. You're probably just a figment of my imagination. This is quite a strange dream."

"You're a strange Khajiit," Ralof muttered to himself. Then, more loudly, he said "I can tell you right now that this is no dream. Have you been taking too much skooma, by any chance?"

Garfield hesitated awkwardly. "I don't understand. What's skooma? Where are we? Besides my mind, I mean."

"Where else?" Ralof chuckled. "Skyrim. Home of the Nords. You must be one of those Khajiit caravaners come to do business."

"Buddy, I've come to do two things in this world: eat lasagna and kick dogs off of tables. Those are my trades, not selling knickknacks in Canada or wherever this place is."

Ralof shrugged, as if he was giving up trying to understand a word Garfield was saying. "All I know is that you were supposedly caught trying to cross the border. That's what our Imperial 'friend' over there says, anyway."

The driver of the wagon, a man clad in some brownish leather getup, snorted. "You two could make a lot of people happy by shutting up and making your last prayers to the Gods."

"Bastard," Ralof muttered. "I can't believe we walked right into their trap. They played us like fools."

"This is all your fault, you know?" said a brown-haired man off to Garfield's right. He was not dressed in the same clothes as the rest of the caravan, instead he was clad in rags. "Damn you Stormcloaks to Oblivion. Skyrim was just fine the way it was, and then you had to ruin it over something as stupid as religion. I could be in Hammerfell right now, but instead? Instead, I'm on this cart, being taken straight to my death."

"You were trying to steal a horse, thief," Ralof argued calmly.

"Lokir," the accused thief replied. "I'm Lokir."

"The point, Lokir, is that you were not exactly innocent. Perhaps this is punishment from the Gods."

"The Gods sure have strange punishments," Lokir muttered under his breath.

A few more seconds passed in relative silence before Garfield noticed the gagged man, dressed in a fur coat and a distinct set of armor, sitting next to Ralof.

"Wow, they really must not like him," Garfield pointed with his bound paws at the gagged man.

Ralof chuckled. "Ah, of course they don't. Do you not know who that is?"

The man in questioned muffled something unintelligible.

"That's Ulfric Stormcloak," Ralof continued when nobody answered his question. "They probably gagged him up so he couldn't profess his own innocence, the damn Imperials."

Lokir's eyes widened, as if stricken with a sudden realization that still eluded Garfield. "Ulfric Stormcloak? The Jarl of Windhelm?"

Ulfric nodded, his eyes half-lidded in exhaustion and stress.

"You're the leader of the rebellion," Lokir declared in quiet awe. Quickly, though, his awe melted into cold fear. "But. . . If they've captured you? Oh Gods, where _are _they taking us!?"

"Nowhere pleasant, that's for sure," Ralof stated with a shrug. "What village do you hail from, horse thief?"

"It doesn't matter where I came from," Lokir stubbornly remarked. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Ralof eyed him sadly. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"I must be dreaming," Garfield added with a tired yawn. "I don't know who any of you are or where I am. Maybe I've been watching too much Game of Thrones, I don't know."

Ralof turned to face Garfield with a bewildered expression. "I do not understand you at all, Garfield."

"The feeling's mutual," Garfield quipped.

Lokir fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. "We need to get out of here," he whispered to his fellow captives. "I can't die like this."

"We were outplayed," Ralof countered. "We have no weapons or rations, our guards outnumber us, and these parts of Skyrim may be friendly to the Imperial cause. Face it, Lokir: our deaths likely await."

Lokir face contorted as if he was trying to formulate a reasonable counterargument, but nothing must have come to mind. Instead, he bowed his head in apparent prayer. "Divines, please help us. Help me."

As the wagon rounded another corner, a walled village came into sight. At once, Ralof's eyes lit up with realization. "I recognize this place. We're coming into Helgen. Before this whole mess started, I used to come here all the time for mead and conversation with a beautiful girl," he remarked with some semblance of happy nostalgia. "I wonder if Vilod still makes that delicious mead with juniper berries mixed in. If you allow me to ramble, I remember a time when Imperial walls and towers made me feel like I could never be in danger, that as long as I remained loyal to the Empire, my rights, my personhood, everything I stood for and believed, it would all be protected. Those beliefs are long gone. I have since recognized them as naïve and foolish, and yet I strangely miss them."

"Quite poignant," Garfield muttered, rolling his eyes in the process.

But Ralof did not hear him. Instead, Ralof peered to the throng of Imperials standing on the side of the road as they entered Helgen's walls. Among the crowd of soldiers was an older man, his hair grey with age, with features stern and still strong in spite of his ancient physique.

Ralof glared at the man, though he never even so much as looked in their direction. "Look at that bastard act so high and mighty, General Tullius, 'The Military Governor'."

No sooner had he spat the words out then a tall, slender, yellow-skinned female emerged from the crowd. He dress was black, quite different from the brown-red leather of her fellow men. Unlike the rest, she cast a smug glance at the cart of prisoners. Her face looked very punchable, even to an otherwise indifferent Garfield.

"And it looks like the Thalmor are here to watch over their puppets. I bet those damn yellow elves had something to do with all of this."

Crowds of citizens, dressed in what Garfield could only recognize as stereotypical medieval peasant clothes, emerged from their houses to watch the procession pass. Some seemed to be bursting with glee, while others only watched with mournful frowns. None spoke. Ralof seemed to recognize one of them, a woman, watching him in particular. Her face was on the verge of tears. He turned away. It hurt too much to look at her.

Not that he had to dwell on her for too long, for the cart suddenly came to a stop against a wall just off of the town square. Prisoners began to file out of the other wagons with barely any prompt

"End of the line," Ralof muttered. "Not the way I wanted to go, but at least I can rest knowing I died for a worthy cause."

"I'm not a rebel!" Lokir shouted at the Imperial soldiers lining up in front of the prisoners. "I'm just a man caught up in all of this! Please, have mercy!"

"Silence!" shouted a woman, her armor steel unlike the rest of the leather-clad men around her. "You're a prisoner, whether or not you're one of these Stormcloaks makes no difference! You will get what you deserve just like the rest of them!"

_Glad to see the legal system in this world is structured so_ _well_, Garfield thought to himself.

The woman gestured to a soldier standing next to her. He was brown-haired, with skin a similar color to Ralof's, and he carried a quill pen and book with him. "When Hadvar calls your name, step forward to the block! One at a time! I can make your last moments much more painful than the headsman can!"

"Imperials love their damn bureaucratic lists," Ralof growled.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," Hadvar began. "Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstea-"

Before Hadvar could finish, Lokir shoved past the rest and stepped far closer than the others. "I am **not **a rebel! You can't do this to me!"

Without waiting for any sort of reply, Lokir booked it past the Imperials, rushing down the cobblestone roads as fast as his rag-covered legs could carry him. He threw his head back to face the Imperials one last time, a wicked smile on his face. "You're not gonna kill me!"

"Archers!" the captain barked fiercely. That was all she had to say to get her men into action. In a moment, three arrows soared down the cobblestone road. The first missed entirely, but the second one dug itself deep into Lokir's ankle. He had just enough time to begin to scream before the third pierced his neck. His scream became a gurgled moan. He froze, stumbled a bit, turned to face the Stormcloaks one last time, and then collapsed onto the ground. Grey stone was washed red with blood. There was no hope that he would ever survive, not with his neck turned into a pincushion.

Ralof only shook his head sadly. "Though a thief he was, I wish he had enough dignity to die gracefully," he remarked. "It would've made for a better song."

"So running is out of the question, I suppose?" Garfield questioned sarcastically. "Good, I'm not much of a runner anyway."

"I detect bitterness in your voice," Ralof replied. "There is no need to despair, my feline friend; our fate is in the hands of The Gods, now."

"I don't know what you mean by 'The Gods'," Garfield countered. "The only god that comes to my mind is Jim Davis."

"Jim who?" Ralof rose an eyebrow. "I do not under-"

"Be quiet!" The captain bellowed, and the pair fell silent. "We are not here to listen to your banter. We are here to execute you lot as traitors! Let's just get this over with! March!"

"Wait!" Hadvar interrupted, scanning the paper in his hands. "The Khajiit. . . Captain, I don't see any Khajiit on this list."

Garfield glance around. "Who, me?"

Hadvar nodded. "What's your name?"

"Garfield," he said with a shrug. "Some would say Garfield Arbuckle, but I prefer Garfield by itself. Any chance I could get some lasagna as a last meal?"

"A strange name for a strange Khajiit," Hadvar commented aloud. "Captain, he's not on this list. I don't think he's with them."

"We can't take any chances," the captain replied without missing a beat. "He goes on the block, with or without his name on the list."

Hadvar nodded. "The execution will be carried out, captain."

"Good."

Turning to Garfield, Hadvar offered a genuinely sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry, Garfield. We'll make sure your remains are returned to the sands of Elsweyr."

"Elsewhere?" Garfield questioned nervously. "Else _where_?"

"March, cat!" bellowed the captain, and Garfield gave up trying to reason. Death or no death, he would wake up from this bizarre dream at some point. He followed the Stormcloaks a few paces to his left. They were already practically in the center of this little walled village, and the executioner's block was already erected close by. Alongside the headsman stood some woman clad in a hooded robe.

_Probably a priestess for one of these 'gods'_, Garfield thought.

Without being called or addressed, Ulfric stepped forward. Though bounded and gagged, there was still something prideful about the way he walked toward his certain doom. He locked eyes with Tullius, and the two men glared, saying nothing.

Finally, as the commotion in the crowd grinded to a halt, Tullius spoke. "Ulfric Stormcloak, to some here in Helgen, you are a hero. That title is unwarranted. No hero would dare murder his rightfully-elected king and attempted to usurp his throne. Their sentiments are misguided, but that will soon be corrected."

Ulfric shouted something, but all that came out was another unintelligible muffle.

"You started this war!" Tullius continued, as if countering Ulfric's words despite not understanding them. "You plunged Skyrim into anarchy and chaos! Now, justice will be carried out here in Helgen! The Empire will put you down! Peace will be restored at last to Skyrim!"

The roar with which he finished his speech was evenly matched with an equally fierce roar coming from the skies. It caught the attention of several Imperials, Stormcloaks, and civilians.

"What was that?" Hadvar questioned. "Did anyone else hear it?"

"It's nothing," Tullius insisted. "I got too impassioned in my speech. It was probably just an echo against the mountains. Let us carry on."

The captain saluted. "Yes, General Tullius!" she affirmed with a nod. Turning to the robe-clad woman, she said, "Give them their last rites."

The robed woman stepped forward. "Stormcloaks of Skyrim, as we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon yo-"

"_Nine _Divines!" a Stormcloak shouted as he stepped forward. "Do not waste my time and yours spreading lies. For the love of Talos, let's just get this over with!"

The priestess scowled at the Stormcloak. "As you wish. You will be the first."

"Good!" the Stormcloak nodded. "Better to die and be done with it than be surrounded with you traitors a minute longer!"

There was no need for the guards to escort him to the block, and the executioner did not need to push him down onto the stone. Instead, the Stormcloak did it all himself.

"Do it!" was all he stated. "Do it now!"

A moment later, his head lied in a wooden basket. His headless corpse, still spewing blood like a fountain, was kicked off the block. Shouts erupted from the crowd, some condemning the unjust slaughter, others calling it justice long overdue. Garfield could only look on in shock. Even if it was all _just _a dream, it felt so real. It looked so real. Maybe this wasn't a dream.

"Next, the cat!" the captain shouted.

"C'mon, Garfield," Havar commanded as compassionately as he could. "Take this nice and easy."

"You have a funny way of dealing with death," Garfield remarked with an annoyed frown as he walk toward the block. "I guess I have no choice but to oblige, though."

"You got that right," the executioner said to him as he kicked Garfield down into position. It took a few extra kicks, because Garfield's fat neck almost didn't fit into the depression, but at last, it finally got squeezed in.

"This is very uncomfortable," Garfield wheezed, barely able to breathe.

"Any brave words of wisdom you wish to impart to your comrades?" the executioner inquired incredulously.

"Eh, a last meal would be nice. Do you have any lasagna? I love lasagna."

The executioner paused. For a moment, just a brief moment, his mind allowed itself to imagine a happy future where prisoners everywhere were given a last meal. What a utopian world that must be! Before he had time to really dwell on his vision, however, he heard another great howl in the skies.

Hadvar's gaze turned skyward, his eyes squinting as he cautiously analyzed the clouds. "There's that sound again. Please tell me I'm not the only one a little nervous about that."

"We can scout it out after we're done here, soldier," Tullius assured. "Right now, we need to end this war."

Garfield wondered why they were executing soldiers and commoners _before _Ulfric if they were so concerned with ending this war. After a moment's consideration, he shrugged it off as crazy dream logic. Gazing upward, Garfield locked eyes with the executioner, who soon drew his axe back to deliver the final blow. Just as he was about to bring the blade down on Garfield's head, however, a large black shape emerged from behind the nearby mountain. It announced its presence with a loud, ear-splitting shout. All became chaos in an instant. Tullius shouted something Garfield didn't quite hear, followed by the sound of several swords sliding out of their scabbards. Even the executioner turned his focus away from Garfield as the shape, now clearly recognizable as some flying beast, touched down on the watchtower above.

"Dragon!" one of the women in the crowd shouted. "There's a dragon in Helgen!"

_Yep, dream logic_, Garfield thought. Nevertheless, he tried to yank his head out of the executioner's block, but his neck fat left him trapped in an awkward situation.

The dragon, however, was not focused on him. It roared with such ferocity that a blast of energy escaped its mouth. The force soared over Garfield, though he couldn't turn his head to see where it landed in the crowd. Above it all, the skies, once clear and bright blue, were now covered completely by violently swirling clouds the color of ash and smoke.

Garfield thought all hope of escaping this situation was lost, until he felt a set of hands, _unbounded _hands, fall upon him. They tugged desperately at his fur, but Garfield was simply too fat to budge.

"C'mon!" Ralof shouted. "Get up! Get up, Garfield! We need to get out of here!"

"You think I like lying on this block anymore than you!?" Garfield shouted back. "I'm stuck!"

"You need to lay off the moon sugar!" Ralof strained as he yanked Garfield harder.

Finally, one more tug freed Garfield from the block. He threw himself up and turned to face Ralof. His face was stained with fresh blood, and his eyes were wild and crazy with shock and distress. Bodies and rubble were strewn about the Helgen town square, and even though it was immediately clear that this was a losing battle, Imperial soldiers fought on. Screams, roars, and exploding cobblestone drowned out almost every other sound.

"C'mon!" Ralof roared. "We need to get out of the open!"

Garfield silently obliged, barely avoiding a blast of fire as he skidded after Ralof across the street, straight into an untouched watchtower. As soon as Ralof made it inside, he shut the door, putting his entire weight against it. Looking around, Garfield found the room already occupied by Ulfric and a few other Stormcloaks.

Ralof panted, clutching at his chest. "Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing!? Could they. . . Could the legends be true?"

Through the chaos, through the fury, Ulfric remained calm and collected. "Ralof, legends do not burn down villages."

An impact from outside shook the tower to its very foundations. One of the Stormcloaks, wounded and lying on the ground, made a gurgling groan.

Ulfric pointed at the stairs. "We can't stay here. We must leave!"

Garfield raised an eyebrow. "I'm no expert in medieval architecture, but I don't think we'll magically find a way out by going upward."

"What choice do we have?" Ralof countered, ignoring the unfamiliar conjecture of 'medieval'. "If we go out the front door, we're even more dead!"

As Ralof began to climb the stairs, he shot a glance back at Garfield. "Are you coming? I'm going with or without you; this is the only thing I can do!"

Garfield shrugged. Confronting the dragon outside might be less painful than confronting his mortal enemy: physical exercise. However, another impact against the watchtower caused his survival instinct to finally kick in, and he rushed after Ralof. A moment later, there was another explosion that took out a large portion of the watchtower's second floor walls. The dragon's fiery breath turned the second floor into a furnace for those unlucky enough to already be up it, but luckily enough for Ralof and Garfield, they managed to hide themselves on the last few stairs. Never noticing their presence, the dragon flew off to destroy things elsewhere.

Ralof was the first to rise, ignoring the rubble and scorched comrades as he peered out through the massive hole in the wall. Below them, the thatched roof of the inn next door had been burned through. It was a long fall, but one that could potentially be made without any serious injuries. At once, Ralof knew what he had to do.

"We're gonna have to jump for it!" Ralof explained as Garfield joined him in staring down below. "We might be able to sneak out past the inn and straight out of town, if we're lucky."

Garfield nodded anxiously. "Eh, why not? Cats always land on their feet, anyway."

Then, to Ralof's mild surprise, Garfield leapt first. True to his word, he landed perfectly fine on the second floor of the inn. Ralof hesitated, summoned the will to jump himself, and came down after Garfield. He landed with a sloppy roll, nearly crashing into a bookshelf, but was ultimately alright.

Garfield began to run, while Ralof scooped up a few bottles strewn about the floor. He recognized those bottles anywhere: Juniper Berry Mead! If he were to survive this, it would be a tale worth telling in a tavern somewhere. Afterwards, he joined Garfield outside the inn. The dragon was still circling what remained of Helgen, and arrows flew as freely as ravens. Few hit their intended target, and even those that did hit seemed to do nothing to stop it.

Alas, the road that had brought them into Helgen was no longer accessible; rubble had blocked it off entirely, forming a makeshift barrier from dragon attacks. Hadvar, the Imperial taking notes of the prisoners, stood with his sword drawn, as did a boy and an elderly man. The boy, unlike the other two, was not moving to find cover. He was pacing slowly about the street, his eyes flickering between corpses and the ruination of his hometown. By all accounts, he was in total shock.

"Hamming!" Hadvar roared. "Hamming! I know you're scared, but you **need **to get over here!" Hadvar's hoarse voice begged. "Please! Don't let the dragon take you too!"

But Hamming didn't seem to hear him. Instead, Ralof ran past the boy, scooping him in his arms in the process, before bringing him to Hadvar alive and unharmed. Garfield followed, just barely avoiding another blast of fire as the five of them too cover behind the rubble on the street.

Hadvar and Ralof, for one brief moment, did not seem to recognize each other as enemies in war. When their gaze fell upon each other, it was not the gaze of hatred or wrath. Instead, if only for a mere second, they were brothers in arms. Then, however, they seemed to realize just who they were leaning against.

And that realization made Hadvar scowl. "Ralof! What are you doing here!?"

"I could the ask the same of you!" Ralof countered with a bitter snarl. "Why are you not fighting with the rest of the Imperials!? We have an excuse to hide from the dragon; we have no weapons! So why are _you,_ with a sword in your hand, hiding with children and the elderly!?"

"Have your brains turned into cabbage!?" Hadvar shouted back. "What good is a sword when the dragon is hardly on the ground!? I'm trying to save those that can't save themselves! What are you doing!?"

"This isn't the time to fight, ladies!" Garfield snarked as he peered around their makeshift hiding spot. "The dragon's back in the air. Maybe we should take this time to get outta here!"

"That cat's right!" the old man agreed. "You two go with him, I'll take care of Hamming. Gods guide all of you!"

Ralof and Hadvar stared into each other's eyes, seemingly weighing the benefits and drawbacks of working with their foe. Finally, Hadvar extended his free arm.

"Truce?"

Ralof shook his hand. "Aye, for now."

Garfield, Hadvar, and Ralof managed to drop into an alleyway, rush through a burned-out house, and met up with Tullius and the last few remaining archers. Despite the fact that most of their comrades were dead or dying, those last few men gave everything into their shots. In a way, it was honorable. In another way, it was hopelessly stupid. Tullius's attention briefly turned to the three of them. Ignoring Ralof's relatively-free status right now, he addressed Hadvar with a shout:

"Into the keep, soldier! We must leave! This is a losing battle!"

"Yes sir!" Hadvar acknowledged as the trio rushed toward the keep. It was among the last of the untouched structures, and unlike the rest, appeared to be actually capable of surviving a dragon attack. As they were sprinting that final stretch, however, the dragon landed on a perch behind them. Garfield turned his head to face it as the ran. Its twisted features resembled a wicked smile as it eyed them. Just then, Ralof reached the door. He threw it open with all his might as Hadvar rushed in first.

Ralof noticed the dragon, what is was about to do, and that Garfield was slowing down. "Hurry!"

The words had just barely left his lips when the dragon sprayed hot fire at the two of them. Just before the flames could swallow them whole, Ralof pulled Garfield inside and shut the door, pressing his whole weight against it. After seconds that seemed like centuries, the force of the dragon's fire finally stopped.

Inside the keep, there was only a little candlelight. Inside the keep, there were still the muffled screams of those trapped outside. Inside the keep, there was an orange cat, an Imperial, and a Stormcloak. None of them knew what to do next.

Well, maybe Ralof did. He produced three bottles of juniper berry mead. "Anyone thirsty?"

Hadvar frowned at him. Garfield slumped himself against a wall, shaking his head.

"Alright," Ralof muttered. "Maybe now is not the time."


	2. Unbound? Part 2

After Ralof pocketed his mead, Hadvar rose to his feet and dusted off his tunic. Despite experiencing everything from hazardous debris to all-consuming fire, his armor remained in quite remarkable shape. He had a feeling it wouldn't stay that way forever, though.

"Alright, we may have made it into the keep, but we're not entirely out of the woods yet," Hadvar explained with a worried frown. "Does anyone know of a way out? I'm unfamiliar with the layout of this keep, but there has to be some alternative to that dragon outside."

Ralof stroked his chin in thought. The roars coming from the outside, combined with the occasional shaking of the keep walls, left all three of them with a general sense of uneasiness. The room they found themselves in seemed to be a living quarters for the local garrison. A few bunks lied perfectly spaced apart from each other on the left side of the entranceway. There were racks were weapons may have once been stored, but those had long since been looted. After what seemed like several minutes, however, Ralof's eyes lit up with sudden realization.

"I may have something, Hadvar! Vilod mentioned once or twice that the bottom of Helgen's keep connected to a tunnel that emptied out somewhere in the north. If we can get through here in one piece, maybe we can get out of here!"

Hadvar snapped his fingers in delight. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to smile. For the first time in an even longer time, that smile was directed at someone with political views like Ralof's. "Good thinking! I missed that side of you, Ralof."

"Few things have changed about me, Hadvar," Ralof assured, his expression evolving into an annoyed frown. "If anything, it is _you _that has changed. Defending Imperial tyranny. . . Look how far you have fallen."

"I am defending my rightful government from a power-hungry usurper," Hadvar countered, masking his frustration with a concentrated grunt. "I have risen, you have fallen, and that is the end of that."

Ralof opened his mouth to shout something impassioned and insulting, but before he could get anything out, the dragon outside roared. All three of them flinched. It served to remind them that there were bigger problems than politics.

It was then that Garfield rose. His shoulders were visibly tensed with anxiety, as only now had the situation sunk in. He may have escaped with his life for the moment, but nothing about this felt like a dream anymore. The screaming, the blood, the smell of fire on human flesh, everything was simply too strong to be a dream.

"I don't know if I can go on any further," Garfield declared, and he meant it. "Are you sure we can't just hold up in this keep and wait for this all to pass? I have so many questions! Where am I? What am I doing here!?"

Hadvar and Ralof shot each other concerned glances.

"He's not with you?" Hadvar inquired. "I thought-"

"No," Ralof replied, shaking his head. "He's acted ignorant of everything, even basic facts, since he woke up on the cart. At first, I thought maybe he had been on some bad trip on Skooma. You know how Khajiit can get right?" he finished that with a nervous chuckle, but then cleared his throat and went dead serious once more. "The thing is, now I'm starting to believe he really doesn't belong here."

Hadvar nodded, but instead of bogging himself down by worrying about Garfield, he forced himself to focuse on more pressing matters. "In any case, we need to get out of here before these walls take too much punishment. They're strong, but old, and they weren't exactly built for dragon attacks."

Bending down, Ralof placed a comforting hand on Garfield's shoulder. Garfield looked him dead in the eye. There was something like compassion in there. In a sense, Ralof had always been nice to Garfield in the short time they'd been together. He may have even saved his life when he went back for him at the headsman's block. Something about that resonated in Garfield's heart. It wasn't the same sensation of detached boredom he often felt around Jon or Odie, it was something stronger, more passionate. The feeling of looking out for your fellow man (or cat) against an overwhelming adversary. It made Garfield feel a certain trust for Ralof.

All these thoughts swam through Garfield before Ralof opened his mouth. "Hey, we're gonna get you out of here, and we're gonna find out what's going on here. I really believe the Gods brought you here for a purpose. There's something special about you, but I need you to focus on the here and now, not just for our sake, but for yours. Don't dwell too hard on what you saw out there, OK? It does you no good."

That invigorated Garfield enough to rise to his feet. A deep breath, a long exhalation, and he was invigorated with something vaguely resembling proactiveness. "Alright, let's get going."

Hadvar bent down to examine a wooden chest sitting at the foot of a cot. He managed to get it open with little resistance, relishing in the raspy creek it emitted as it opened. "Finally, a bit of good luck!"

"What did you find there, Hadvar?" Garfield inquired, walking past Ralof to check for himself. Before he had a chance to examine the contents however, Hadvar yanked out an iron shortsword, a leather cap fashioned in the same Imperial style as his own, a pair of boots, a uniform, and a second shortsword.

"I'm already armed and armored," Hadvar not-so-subtly bragged. "Maybe you two can make something out of this."

Ralof stepped over and snatched one of the swords. Stepping back a safe distance, he twirled the blade around in his hand, and performed a few practice swings. Finally, he shook his head in slight annoyance. "I'm more of an axe man if I am to be honest, but a sword is better than nothing, I suppose," he admitted with a shrug. Glancing at the armor, he could not mask his disgust entirely. "I refuse to wear Imperial armor, and besides," -he gestured proudly at his Stormcloak uniform- "I'm not exactly without armor, myself."

With permission granted, Garfield swiped the helmet and boots with little hesitation. He pulled the leather armor over his body with minimal effort. It was big on his body, as despite his considerable girth, he was only about half as tall as its intended wearer. Nevertheless, his weight prevented it from being too loose for comfort. With his armor equipped, Garfield eyed the sword suspiciously. He was far from quick to pick the weapon up. It gleamed sinisterly in the dim candlelight, as if it were the devil winking at him.

"Garfield, are you alright?" Hadvar inquired.

It was enough to snap Garfield out of his trance. He shook his head. "Not really. The only sword I feel comfortable with is a butterknife. Do you,"-he gulped-"do you really think I'll need this?"

"The caves in Skyrim are far too often crawling with all sorts of nasty creatures," Ralof explained, sliding his newfound sword in its scabbard. He passed a matching one to Garfield, who, with some assistance, managed to attach it to his armor's belt. Due to his short stature, the lower end sat just centimeters above the ground. Strangely enough that reminded Garfield of dragging Pooky all around the house. He missed Pooky dreadfully, more than he thought possible.

To take his mind off of it, he took the sword and place it in his scabbard. Then, he turned ahead. "Let's go, I suppose."

With the occasional exception of the dragon's muffled roars outside, the Keep was eerily quiet. Despite Tullius's promises, nobody else, Imperial, Stormcloak, or civilian, entered the keep. The trio silently crept down the hall, pulled on a chain, and walked through a circular room that was illuminated by the sun. Far off to the right was another entrance into the keep. A charred corpse was wedged between the door and the frame. Outside, there were still screams and shouts, but none of them were particularly close.

"I hope Ulfric made it out of there alive," Ralof remarked with some anxiety.

"I don't," Hadvar snorted.

"Shut up, Hadvar."

Knowing the only thing worth doing was to keep moving, Garfield used a key from a nearby end table to unlock a barred door leading deeper into the keep. The three of them headed down the stairs. Hadvar, leading in the front, dashed down the hall and to the other side. Garfield made to follow him, but just before he could break into a run, a ferocious war precipitated an cave in of cobblestone right in the center of the hall.

"Hadvar!" Garfield and Ralof yelled at-near simultaneous preciseness.

"I'm alright!" Hadvar called back once the dust had settled. "You're gonna have to find a way around! I'll wait for you. Just hurry! I'm starting to doubt the integrity of this place."

Luckily for them, Garfield's nose caught a whiff of something delicious. His stomach howled like a wolf staring above at a full moon. With no hesitation, he burst into a door to his left. The room contained barrels shelves, large sacks of flours, and a dinner table. Garfield knew next to nothing about medieval life, and even he knew exactly what this room was: a larder. And where there's a larder, there's heaps upon heaps of delicious food.

"Move out of the way!" Garfield hissed. "I'm starving!"

His sense of smell was true, for upon opening up a barrel, Garfield found several dried helpings of salmon, a few biscuits, and a massive wheel of cheese. One bite confirmed it was goat, and he started chowing down.

Even Ralof, who had subsisted on basic military rations ever since he joined Ulfric's army, couldn't quite resist the temptation of relatively-fresh food. Pheasants and rabbits still cooked above a roaring fire. They were still fresh, cooked to near-perfection. Happily, eagerly, he helped himself to the meat while Garfield polished off the rest of the barrel's contents.

It was a meal fit for royalty! They were so distracted by food, however, that they failed to notice that they were not entirely alone. Squeaks, the _pitter-patter_ of tiny feet on the hard stone floor, little greyish-black shapes lurking in the shadows. They beings watched hungrily. As far as they were concerned, this was _their _food, and they did not take kindly to thieves stealing it!

Just as Garfield swallowed an entire apple whole, three incredibly-oversized rats leapt out from their hiding place behind the sacks of flour. They charged at Ralof, his back turned, his attention still focused on the rabbit's legs. Two pounced on him from behind, throwing him to the ground and inconveniently knocking his sword straight out of his scabbard. Ralof's shout caught Garfield's attention, but it was a second too late! When he turned his head, the third skeever was there to greet him. He had no time to react; it was already pouncing for his face. The force of the impact led Garfield to roll on his round body to against the wall. He screamed, his eyes wide with fear, as it's jagged teeth snapped at his face. Its claws, sharp and unkempt, dug into his skin. They were sharp enough to draw blood, and Garfield absolutely howled in pain.

"Skeevers!" Ralof roared. "Gods damn it! Skeevers!"

"Ralof!" Garfield screamed like a little girl. "Help me! Help me!"

"I can't!" Ralof returned, flipping over to his side as he tried and failed to kick his own two beasts away. His back was bleeding, but not terribly. Realizing that kicking was futile, he used his strength to reach for his sword. Alas, it was just out of his reach! "Garfield, you'll have to defend yourself!"

Garfield felt his paw grab something, only to realize his sword. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He was gonna have to kill. Sure, mice were the natural enemy of most cats, and oversized rats were not too far removed from mice, but Garfield loved the mice in Jon's house. They were his friends, his accomplices. They had a deal! And even when that was discounted, Garfield had never killed before. Sure, he had kicked Odie off the table more times than anyone could count, but this was. . . different.

Regardless of whether it was different or not, self-preservation soon kicked in. With no other option, Garfield managed to hold back the skeever with one hand as he drew his sword with another. He swung at it wildly, missing each strike due to his own inexperience with such an usual weapon. It didn't help that this supposed "shortsword" was like a claymore in his tiny paws. The skeever ravenously hissed at him, not caring that Garfield was now trying to hit it. It suddenly cared a lot more, however, when Garfield finally got a lucky strike on it! It was powerful enough to knock it off of him. It rose again, prepared to strike back, but by this point, Garfield was running on pure adrenaline. He swung again, and again, and again. All three strikes were true, with the last one finally slicing into the skeever's neck. It managed one final gurgling screech before it went quiet forever.

Garfield stood over his first kill with something akin to shock in his eyes. He had killed. Yes, it was in self-defense. Yes, it was against something that, for all intents and purposes, was a mindless beast. Nevertheless, he had slaughtered it. _He _was a killer. Shameful as it was, he also couldn't help feeling a sense of pride. It wasn't _because _he killed the skeever, but more due to the fact that he _had_ defended himself. This world was still scary, but now it seemed just a little bit less scary.

He was still too lost in his own thoughts to notice Ralof struggling. At last, the Stormcloak soldier managed to crawl over to his weapon and cut the skeevers down with less trouble than Garfield had. Bloody though he was, Ralof managed to stand on his own. He breathed heavily, eyed Garfield with a warrior's exhausted glare, then at the dead skeevers below, and then at what was left of the rabbit. Ultimately, he grabbed the rabbit, bit off one last hunk of meat, and threw the rest right into the fire.

"I. . . I did it," Garfield muttered after all returned to quiet. "I fought back."

"Aye," Ralof nodded, offering a pained smirk that failed to mask slight annoyance. "I could've used your help, though."

Garfield tried to smirk back slyly. Instead, his shock just made his expression look kinda weird. "Well, hey, I had to make sure you were the great Stormcloak warrior you claimed to be."

The quip fell flat. Ralof shrugged it off. Garfield didn't exactly look like the battle-hardened type. Perhaps, he thought, he should be thankful that he didn't have to save Garfield himself. Shrugging the thought off, Ralof turned his attention around to the room. He didn't dare slide his sword back into the scabbard, not when there were potentially more skeevers creeping about the storeroom.

"I could really go for a health potion right about now," Ralof remarked. Red liquid dripped down his back, but despite the obvious pain he must have felt, he didn't once wince. "Garfield, do you think they'd keep any potions in a storeroom?"

Garfield shrugged, turning his attention away from the dead skeever. "How am I supposed to know? Anyway, I thought potions were nothing more than snake oil and disappointment."

Ralof stopped his examination long enough to shoot Garfield a queer look. "You're really not from Tamriel, are you?"

Garfield mimed ringing a bell. "Ding ding ding! Were you a betting man, you'd be rich."

Ralof turned his attention to a barrel, opened the lid, and reached inside. His focused, strained face quickly morphed into one of pure glee as he yanked his arms out. In his hands were three small, reddish vials.

"Health potions!" Ralof exclaimed joyously. He quickly uncorked one and drank it. Garfield watched with no small amount of shock as blue energy briefly circled around Ralof's body. As if touched by the supposed Gods himself, the gaping wounds on Ralof's back were closed with healthy flesh.

"That's much better," Ralof muttered. Turning to Garfield, he tossed one of the remaining two potions at him. "Take one of these. You may need it later."

Garfield was still too shocked to notice the vial flying in his direction. It bounced off his fat belly and skittered on the floor. Luckily, whoever manufactured the vials must've utilized top quality glass, for it did not break.

"You. . . You just. . ."

"Healed myself!" Ralof confirmed with a smirk. "I can't imagine a world where injuries can't be treated with a little alchemical prowess."

Garfield only then seemed to notice the potion lying at his feet. He snatched it up and pocketed it. For once, when Garfield tried to conjure some snarky remark, his brain failed. It may have been from all the stress he had already faced today; he didn't know for sure. All he could do was put one foot in front of the other. Hopefully, he would live long enough to be able to digest everything in peace.

They finished snatching up the remaining provisions: a few loaves of fresh bread, some leftover vegetables, and one or two more wheels of cheese. Once they were bled the larder dry of its foodstock, they emerged through the door on the other side. There stood Hadvar, staring down a set of staircases that led toward a candlelit room below.

His eyes fell upon them, and his expression briefly flashed from shock to crossness. "There you two are," he scolded. "What took you so long?"

Ralof held up a dismissive hand. "Calm yourself, Hadvar. We had a little, er, _incident _with some skeevers. Speaking of which,"-he dug through his pockets until he produced a half-eaten loaf of bread- "Hungry?"

Hadvar grunted. "We've already lost enough time as it is with you bumbling about. C'mon, let's just go."

The three of them crept down the stairs and entered the room below them. It was bathed by the warm glow of candlelight, but there was nothing comforting about it. On the other side of the room were three gigantic metal cages, their bars now browned with rust and decay. Splotches of splattered blood were all over the room: on walls, on floors, and on the two pillars in the center. A single man, clad in a hooded crimson robes, emerged from one of the corners. He held an intricately-forged dagger out to the three intruders. it's corkscrew-esque blade looked exceptionally sharp. Garfield gulped. Hadvar stood his ground.

"Who goes there?" the hooded figure questioned. His tone was calm, almost sinisterly so. "You are interrupting my work."

"Your work can wait, torturer," Hadvar replied. "Haven't you heard the noises up above? There's a _dragon_ attacking Helgen. We"-he gestured to both Garfield and Ralof- "need to get out of here as soon as possible."

The hooded figure snorted. "A dragon? Don't waste my time," then, noticing Ralof's Stormcloak uniform for the first time, the torturer's lips curved upwards into a smile. There was absolutely nothing warm about it. "Well, I suppose I should thank you for bringing me a prisoner, at least."

Instinctively, Ralof drew his sword. "Don't touch me with your wicked hands you damn faithless Imperial. I'm coming out, too."

Hadvar drew his own sword and pointed it at the torturer. "I'm serious as, well, a dragon attack. We need to get out of here, and damn this whole civil war until we do. Now, if you don't want to join us, get out of our way."

Garfield, feeling left out of the action, also drew his sword. "Yeah, listen to the guy with the biggest sword, you creep!"

"Traitors!" The torturer exclaimed, throwing his sword at Ralof. The Stormcloak dodged it with a timely sidestep, and it skidded to the far side of the room.

Ralof turned to him and offered a smug smile. "Ha, you miss-"

His sentence was cut off by a blast of lightning magic, engulfing Ralof in pure agony. He roared as his skin started to smoke, and the blast caught him off guard enough for him to drop his sword.

"Ralof!" Hadvar and Garfield screamed. And then, to everyone's shock, even his own, Hadvar rushed in front of Ralof, took the electricity as best as he could, and advanced on the torturer bloodthirstily. The torturer cackled, even as Hadvar managed to get in a slash at his stomach. Ultimately, Ralof rose, grabbed his sword, and rushed to help Hadvar. Garfield joined them with a leaping bound, slicing the torturer's arm clean off in a clumsy-yet-effective slash. The torturer's lightning stopped. He squealed like a stuck pig, and Hadvar, though pained and scorched by the lightning, finished him off like one.

Hadvar breathed in and out heavily, his expression a mixture of rage and pain. Ultimately, he sighed, and sheathed his sword with considerable effort. "I've never met a profession so dedicated to barbarism as a torturer, not even a bandit. Hell, he gives the dragon outside a run for his money."

"Was he shooting lightning at us?" Garfield inquired, examining the remains with some level of fear.

"At _me_," Ralof corrected. Then, after a moment's pause, his eyes lit up with realization. "Hadvar, you saved my life."

Hadvar had to think that over a few times for the epiphany to finally hit. When it did, however, he nodded. "Yeah, I suppose I did. I mean, I couldn't let you die, could I?"

"It's just. . . I'm a Stormcloak, and you're-"

"Like I said before, damn the civil war right now. Until we get out of this cave, we're brothers-in-arms, are we not?"

Ralof nodded, smiling in a way he hadn't in a long time. "Aye. I guess I hadn't given it much thought, but you're right."

Hadvar uncorked his potion and drank. His wounds were somewhat serious, so they didn't quite go away, but his skin began to smell less like a bad barbecue. Before long, he was rearing to go, and lacking any reason to stay in this room, they headed past the dungeon and deeper into the structure. True to Vilod's word, once they passed the prison cells filled with the bones of men long-dead, there was a hole in the wall that led into a corridor that consisted of the natural and ground of a deep cave. Lit by torches and occasional sunlight peering through a hole above, they marched on. Further on, they encountered an open room made of stone once again. There were a few more skeevers crawling around, but they were no match for two warriors and a cat this time. Once those were cut down, they passed over a wooden bridge lit by a large hole of sunlight from above. It lead them down some stone stairs, and then they followed a little underground stream. All seemed well and mundane, and it was, at least until they came across a wide open space in the cave. There, they immediately noticed that the walls and corners of the floor were adorned with thick, strong cobwebs.

Ralof gulped. "You don't think?"

"I don't think," Hadvar confirmed, just as uneasy. "I know."

They drew their swords and paced forward much more carefully. Garfield only smiled smugly. "So there's a few spiders that made this little room their home? So what? I've squashed hundreds of spiders with a newspaper back home?"

"You've squashed a poisonous beast the size of a child with just a piece of paper?" Hadvar questioned skeptically.

"Yeah, all the-" Garfield stopped as his blood ran as cold as the air that morning. "Wait, did you say the size of a child?"

As if on cue, three absolutely humongous spiders, at least from Garfield's perspective, fell from the ceiling. One landed dangerously close to Ralof, who screamed like a little girl and kicked it across the room. It flew past Hadvar and landed on Garfield's face.

"**AAAAAAHHHHH GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!**" Garfield cried in fear as he tugged on the spider. He pulled it off his face just before it regained its bearings enough to bite. Hot saliva dripped from its fangs and poured down Garfield's arms. He threw it down, kicked it himself, then drew his sword and plunged the weapon right into its abdomen. That killed it well enough.

Meanwhile, Ralof decapitated a second spider as he emitted a thunderous warcry. Hadvar sliced at a couple of them coming his way, bringing an end to them before they could bite into him.

"Ow!" Garfield shrieked and grabbed his behind. Turning around, he noticed a spider far bigger than the others staring it down. He felt a newfound indention in his butt, and he gulped. "You bit me!"

The spider, of course, didn't answer. It tried to snap at Garfield again, but he managed to hope back just in time. Drawing his sword, he felt weaker. Venom was in his bloodstream, but he couldn't succumb to it now. He jumped at it, slicing its face and coming away with one of its eyes. It felt oddly warm in his hand. He tossed it away with a squeamish frown. The spider, now absolutely furious-looking came at him again. He skidded up a natural pillar nearby. The spider climbed up after him, but to Garfield's simultaneous good and bad luck, he fell after failing to find anything to plant his claws into. He landed on the spider's back. It tried to buck him off like a wild nag, but Garfield hung on. Desperately, he dug his sharp claws deep into the spider's neck. It squealed. He scratched as harshly as he knew how. It did something. His claws came away coated in a thin layer of fresh blood. Garfield choked it again, sinking his claws as deep as he possibly could into the monster's flesh. His strength was fading fast. It was now or never. He didn't let go. The spider slowed down. It tried to reach Garfield with its many legs, but they just could bend to get him. The resistance grew weaker, weaker, and weaker. At last, the spider simply stopped.

Garfield had just enough time to get off of it before he stopped to. He collapsed on the ground, feeling the venom overtake him, and he passed out altogether.

A little while later, he woke up to Ralof and Hadvar sitting near him. An empty potion bottle was in Ralof's hands. Noticing Garfield stir, Ralof nudged Hadvar. "He's waking up. Thank Talos, I thought we lost him."

"Eh, what happened?" Garfield muttered. His head was kinda fuzzy. He knew he was still in some strange world, with two strange people named Hadvar and Ralof, but he couldn't remember for the life of him how he had gotten on the floor like this.

"Frostbite spiders," Ralof answered with a shiver. "We got ambushed by a little colony of them just a few minutes ago. One of them must've bitten you, because we found you on the ground. We used this potion on you"- Ralof held up the empty bottle -"and you were awake after a few minutes of it kicking in. You must've got bitten a lot to get knocked out like that."

Memories started coming back to Garfield: the dragon, Helgen's attack, sneaking through the keep, the spider bite. With all that happened today, he supposed it lucky that he made it as far as he did without a serious injury. "No, it was only one bite, just from a _very _big one. I killed it, though. I told you spiders are no match for a cat like me," Garfield chuckled. "Everything feels so wobbly."

Hadvar winced. "I pity you, but we still need to get out of here? Are you good to walk?"

Garfield, though woozy, rose to his feet. He felt himself with his hands, then nodded. "I think so? Have we got much further?"

"Maybe," Ralof shrugged. "I don't know how much further this cave can go," he muttered as he started to go forward. They were in a long stretch of cave next to another stream of cavewater. Following it a few yards led Ralof to a disturbing sight: on the far side of the room, bathed in natural light as it the star of some tavern show, was a full-grown, sleeping bear.

Hadvar noticed he had stopped. "What's wrong? Do you see something."

"Bear," Ralof whispered harshly. "Up ahead, in that light!" he pointed at the sleeping beast. "How are we gonna get around that?"

Hadvar bit his lip. His hand went to his sword's hilt as though it was second nature. "We may not be able to go _around _it, exactly."

"Are you crazy?" Ralof scolded. "Are we really looking for a fight now? We've used all of our health potions."

"But if that thing wakes up... Garfield, do you have a plan?"

Garfield stroked his furry chin. "Offer him a pick-a-nick basket? He may be smarter than the average bear."

Alas, while Hanna-Barbera might have thought that a good solution, Ralof and Hadvar did not. Turning back to the bear, Hadvar drew the bow he was carrying. His eyes squinted.

"Are you really-"

"I am."

Ralof sighed, as he seriously considering running back up to the spider den. Finally, he shrugged off the craven idea and nodded. "I'll help in any way I can."

"Me too," Garfield offered, drawing his sword. Cats are pretty quick."

"Cats. . . That gives me an idea!" Hadvar whisper-yelled. "Garfield, you distract the bear. Bring it closer here so I can get a good shot on it."

"Oh, no!" Garfield shook his head so fast, it was a miracle that it didn't unscrew and pop off. "You want me to have a hot date with 600-pound babymama? No way!"

"Garfield, you're a cat. You got four paws and a penchant for climbing things. I got a bow and a quiver of arrows. I can cover you just fine."

Ralof nodded. "Just go, Garfield. I'll come in if things get rough."

Garfield snorted. "All right, I guess this is where I die, then."

"That's the spirit?" Hadvar replied.

Creeping forward on all fours, Garfield snuck up to the bear at a pace a snail might find too slow. His feet shook, and the sword in his hands wobbled slightly from side to side. Just before he could spring his plan, there was one last woosh of wooziness from the spider's venom. he tripped himself and fell with a loud thud. . . inches away from the bear's yawn gape. The bear opened its eyes, and upon seeing Garfield, the yawn became a loud, threatening roar. Garfield sprung to his feet with swiftness that surprised even himself. He leapt back just before its gaping maw could snatch him up like a midnight snack. He hopped to his right, trying but failing to land a slash against the beast.

"Hadvar! Now!" Garfield squealed desperately. An arrow soared through the air and pierced the bear right on it's flank. It only seemed to make it madder at Garfield.

Though fighting for his life, Garfield somehow found the sarcasm to roll his eyes. "C'mon! I didn't even hit you!"

The bear didn't care; it only roared louder. It stood on its hind legs, several hundred pounds of death exhibited in all its glory. Garfield tried to back away, but his tail was greeted by a wall. He was backed up! He was trapped.

At least until a second arrow pierced the bear's body. It stopped, suddenly realizing that there was another attacker behind it. It started to turn its attention to Hadvar and Ralof, and Garfield knew what he had to do. Leaping forward with a stroke of bravery, he jabbed the sword right in the bear's fat chest. It roared again, this time in pain, but Garfield yanked the sword out before it could scratch him with its paws. One more jab with his sword reached its neck, splattering blood on Garfield and the cave walls behind him. The bear grunted, then collapsed onto the ground. A kick from Garfield confirmed it was dead.

"Throughout the day, I've been attacked by a dragon, a magic sadist, and man-sized spiders," Garfield remarked. "But the things that nearly got me killed were overgrown rats and a completely mundane bear."

"Nearly," Ralof said with a smirk. "Nearly, but we're alive."

"Garfield, that was amazing work!" Hadvar complimented as he put his bow away. "That whole 'trip and fall' routine worked out perfectly."

"I didn't mean to trip," Garfield corrected with a deadpan frown.

"Oh. . . Well, best not to think about what could have happened. Let's just get out of here."

All it took was rounding the next corner for the party to start feeling the chilly outside air of Skyrim once more. A little ways down, they began to see snow, and then after walking up a short, slight incline, sunlight bathed their faces. Before long, they were standing outside, taking in the afternoon air and listening to the birds sing. The way that the breeze kissed Garfield's face, how the sun tickled his orange fur, it made him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.

"We've made it out!" Garfield cheered, hopping up and down and all around. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's so nice to see the sun again!"

A few seconds later, the dragon flew overhead. Garfield yelped, and Ralof pulled him behind a rock as Hadvar joined them to hide. Luckily, the dragon neither heard nor noticed them, and it flew onwards, heading north.

They remained uncomfortably close and silent for a few more seconds. Then, once it was clear that the dragon wasn't coming back, they emerged from their impromptu hiding place.

"Well, what do we do now?" Hadvar questioned.

Ralof seemed to know right away. "We're going to Riverwood. Our families are there, are they not? We need a place to stay for at least the night, not to mention a meal. Garfield and I pigged out a little in the store room, but besides that, none of us have eaten all day, have we?"

Hadvar shook his head wearily. As if on cue, Garfield's stomach growled at the mention of a meal. Overdramatically, Garfield swooned as if he was about to die of hunger.

"I'm too weak without lasagna," he remarked, collapsing on the ground. "You two must go on without me!"

Hadvar rolled his eyes. "Get up, you fat cat. Riverwood's only a couple of hours away," as he said that, he scanned the sky. "Judging by the sun's position, we'll make it right on time for dinner."

Garfield rose to his feet in no time at all. "Dinner sounds good! Let's go!"

Garfield started down the dirt trail, skimming his hands along the wild grasses to his left with a surprisingly amount of gratefulness for just being alive. Hadvar started to follow him, only to feel Ralof put his hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," Ralof said. "I just want to say. . . well, thanks for all your help today. I've seem to forgotten how reliable you could be, even if you are a damn Imperial," Ralof chuckled at that last part, clearly implying it was meant in jest.

Hadvar took it as such and returned the laugh. "You were no small help, yourself. That dragon showing up may have stopped your execution, it may mean the war is back on if Ulfric made it out of there alive, but in a way, I'm kind of glad that whole attack happened."

Ralof raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? And why exactly do you think that?"

Hadvar shrugged. "Well, Ralof, going through that keep with you made me think. Do you remember the summers we spent in Riverwood as children? Back then, the world didn't seem so complicated. We didn't care about war, or politics, or religion. Our greatest fear was a draugr sneaking into town at night and kidnapping us."

Ralof burst into hearty laughter. "I remember that! We set up a bunch of traps and anything. Gods, was your uncle angry when he fell into that pit!"

Hadvar chuckled. "Anyway, I was wondering. . . I know we are on different sides of this war; I know we think differently about who should run this country. But I was thinking, does that mean we have to be enemies?"

Ralof thought about it. "Maybe for most folk, it does. I can assure you, Hadvar, many Stormcloaks are willing to die for Ulfric, myself included. I just can't stand the emperor's cowardice since the Great War. It's tragic, you know? The Empire used to be such a force on Tamriel, and now its weak."

To Ralof's surprise, Hadvar nodded. "Aye, we're not as strong as we used to be, and I know the ban on the worship of Talos cuts deep with many of us Nord folk, but is dividing our remaining provinces into separate nation-states really worth it?" Before Ralof could answer in the affirmative, Hadvar raised a hand. "We both think differently on this subject; that's no secret. I'm just wondering if maybe. . . we can be friends again? At least until we go back to war."

Ralof smiled. He nodded, saying nothing for a few seconds. "Aye. Yes, I'd like that a lot."

They pulled themselves into a hug, laughingly cheerfully, for they were alive. The future was still there's, and maybe they would have to fight in the future, maybe they would even have to die for a cause that may not even win, but that was then. For now? They were just like the two kids that used to play in the streets of Riverwood so many years ago.

They heard the sound of a clearing throat, and they broke away to find Garfield standing a little way's down, tapping his foot impatiently. "It's a sweet reunion and all, but can it maybe wait until dinner?"

Hadvar nodded and started following Garfield down the road. "Yes, I suppose. Let's save the festivities to go with the seared slaughterfish, eh?"

Ralof patted his stomach, grinned, and chased after them.


End file.
